


Always So Cool

by Raicho



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Bottom Daryl, First Time, Love Confessions, M/M, Oral Fixation, Rick's POV, Sex on a Car, Slapping, Smoking, Spit As Lube, Top Rick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 12:42:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8162392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raicho/pseuds/Raicho
Summary: Daryl’s looking like the image of laid back glamour with his fingers holding the cigarette to his mouth perfectly enough to give off the illusion of delicacy. The sight makes Rick think of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s book about the romantic millionaire—you always look so cool.





	

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, thank you to my beautiful friend, littlebluebox921, for acting as my beta with this story.
> 
> Second, I'm going to apologize in advance for not going into depth with stretching/fingering in this story. I just didn't feel like touching on it this time around. Oops.

            Daryl crawls into the passenger seat, bending low and ducking his head to fit himself into the tight space after having taken out a half dozen walkers—two of them with his bare hands alone. His skin is golden and glistening with fresh sweat, causing his hair to stick to the back of his neck in dark, damp strands. His cheeks are flushed red and his chest is puffing out with a show of exertion.

            The hunter pulls the door shut with a loud slam before he leans back into the sedan’s black leather upholstery. His eyes are closed when his pink tongue—shining and wet with spit—pokes out to swipe across his thin lips, dragging it from corner to corner. Rick can’t help but gulp expectantly at the sight of it; he’s clutching the wheel and grinding his heels into the floor in hopes of staving off the growing burn that’s tightly wound itself into the foundations of his core.

            When Daryl opens his eyes, their blue depth catches the fire-bright reflection of the setting sun. He looks like something not human—like a species of something yet untamed. The purpling sky stretches shadows across the outline of his body, and Rick wonders what type of ethereal prowess the hunter would hold come moonlight.

            “We headin’ back ‘er what?” his voice is like Jack and Coke, sweet with a warm, rumbling punch for emphasis.

            Rick shakes his head to help clear his wandering mind before turning the keys in the ignition, “Yeah, sorry ‘bout that. Was just thinkin’…” The engine roars to life and the vehicle’s body shivers from the start.

            “Mm.” the hunter shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly as he dips a hand into his back pocket to tug at a carton of smokes.

            Daryl flips the carton’s lid and plucks out a single fag from the box. He sticks it between his lips without a second thought; soft flesh wrapping around its shape like a python clutching its prey. He pulls a lighter from the emptied carton before he tosses the container into the back seat of the car, and with practiced ease he ignites the lighter with a single switch of his thumb. The hunter lifts the blooming flame close to his face; the smoldering flicker gives him a transcendental appearance. He lights the end of the cigarette that’s still sinfully gripped between his lips, and hot ember flecks float into the stagnant air. Rick watches as Daryl sucks in a breath, inhaling the intoxicating hit of nicotine; cheeks hollowing for a second or two as the hunter pulls in his first drag.

            And then Daryl’s exhaling; blowing white smoke from his mouth like dragon’s breath, hot and mystic against the darkening sky. Rick’s noticed the hunter has an oral fixation of sorts; he just wishes Daryl would be more inclined to seek out something else to fixate on aside from his thumb or smokes… Something else like _Rick_.

            Daryl looks over at Rick with hooded eyes and nods; the cigarette is still hanging from his mouth with burning ash spreading at its tip. And suddenly there’s a feeling of impossible dread that settles beneath Rick’s skin—like an itch that won’t subside until it’s been picked at with consideration. It’s the type of feeling that occurs when there’s something trapped on the tip of a person’s tongue, but they’re too afraid to release it to the world in fear of it changing too drastically.

            Daryl’s looking like the image of laid back glamour with his fingers holding the cigarette to his mouth perfectly enough to give off the illusion of delicacy. The sight makes Rick think of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s book about the romantic millionaire— _you always look so cool_.

            Rick tears his gaze away from the hunter and presses down onto the accelerator, forcing the car forward and onto the dirt road. There’s an ache building in his chest and he’s finding it harder to breathe with every second that whirrs past them in deafening silence. He’s watching the clouds of smoke dissipate out of the corner of his eye and he chews on his bottom lip to help keep himself focused.

            “Lookin’ like yer ‘bout ready to split yer lip.” Daryl’s voice breaks the eerie quiet that had settled between them.

Rick gives Daryl a tight smile and an awkward laugh before nodding half-heartedly in agreement, “S’pose I am,” his teeth glide across the chapped skin of his lower lip before tucking neatly back into his mouth.

            “Somethin’ the matter?” The hunter questions, eyes careful and calculating as he observes how tightly Rick’s gripping the steering wheel, “Need me t’ drive a bit?”

            Rick’s head dips as he gives a toothy smile—more for himself than Daryl—and he shakes his head, “Nah, it’s all good. Was just thinkin’ ‘s all…”

            “Y’ been doin’ a lot of thinkin’, Rick,” Daryl takes one last pull from his cigarette before rolling down the window and flicking the abandoned butt to the curb, “Anythin’ in particular?”

            Passing by, Rick notices there’s a motel on the side of the road, its unlit neon sign reads _Lucky Boy Motel_ —and if that doesn’t get his mind dropping down, knees first in the gutter then he doesn’t know what will. And he knows that Daryl’s watching him with his dark eyes, taking in every detail and nervous twitch that Rick’s body language is giving away, waiting patiently for an answer. He’s sweating under the pressure and he can’t help but let his mind wander back and forth between that damn motel and the possibility of having the hunter’s lips wrapped around something juicier than a coffin nail.

            There’s a flood growing inside of Rick and he’s afraid of opening his mouth and having the dam break. But there’s that nagging itch on his tongue again, and it’s blistering like a forest fire—uncontrollable and near inescapable. The thought’s prying at the locks on his mouth, unscrewing his jaw and forcing his lips to part to allow for passage of his guarded secrets. With a tilt of his head, he lets the gates open and the flood spill freely.

            “Thinkin’ about you.”

            The words leave Rick’s lips like a fluttering of doves from a wedding chapel. He’s immediately regretting his vague—but nevertheless factual—statement. He wants to rake the syllables off the floor like autumn leaves and hide them away until they rot and disintegrate with the passing of time. His face feels red hot from the impression of flames licking at his cheeks, and his eyes are wide and staring at the expanse of empty road before them. He doesn’t know how Daryl reacted; Rick’s too nervous to allow himself a glance at the hunter—to allow for the opportunity to openly mock his confession.  Deep down, Rick knows that Daryl would never knowingly cast judgment so harshly, but the fear still swirls deep in his belly, making Rick feel nothing but unsettled.

            “Me too.”

            It’s unexpected. It’s a life vest tossed out at sea as he’s struggling for purchase against the crushing waves that are threatening to drown him. He clutches onto it as tightly as possible with hope beaming from his eyes.

            “Yeah?”

            Rick slows the speed of the car before he takes a tentative glance over at Daryl. The hunter is masked in shadow with the fading of the sun and the rising of the stars, but Rick can make out the glimmering white of Daryl’s eyes still focused on him.

            “Yeah.”

            There’s solid confirmation—no room for misinterpretation or speculation of false speech.

            “Y’ think ‘bout me a lot?”

            They’re staring at each other for a period of time before the intensity of the moment is split when Daryl leans forward to place a gentle hand atop Rick’s thigh. It’s encouraging and warm, and it holds the promise of promiscuous exploration. In response, Rick drops his hand over top the hunter’s, lacing their fingers together in union.

            “Yeah…”

            Daryl’s fingers dig into the meaty flesh of Rick’s thigh as the officer leans in even closer and places a timid kiss against the hunter’s lips. He’s rewarded when the hunter pushes himself further into the kiss, opening his mouth with invitation. There’s a burn against Rick’s cheeks as his skin rubs against Daryl’s beard, and it’s everything he’s ever wanted. Daryl tastes like bourbon and smoke—it’s an exhilarating mixture of flavor that perfectly describes the hunter. Their tongues dance around each other, and their teeth are scraping against flesh as the two fight for dominance in their physical display of affection. Kissing Daryl Dixon is like playing with knives—thrilling and dangerous. It’s nothing like he’d ever imagined where the shy hunter would be passive and unsure—no, Daryl is fully aware of what he wants and he’s not afraid to take and escalate.

            Rick is taken by surprise when Daryl starts crawling further into his lap, groping at either side of his shoulders as he finds comfort hovering above Rick’s developing erection. Rick reaches out to frame Daryl’s hips with the palms of his hands—and dammit if Rick couldn’t remember when he hit the brakes and pulled them off the road.

            Daryl’s the image of a porn star as he grinds himself against Rick’s body; his hips are serpentine in their movement, swaying from side to side without restriction or pause. They’re tearing at each other’s clothes if only to touch heated flesh and feel their connection exceed to another level of intimacy. It’s cramped and they’re hitting their heads off the ceiling and their legs on the handles. There’s no room in the car, and Rick curses himself for not stopping at the _Lucky Boy_.

            Rick reaches for his door handle and opens it; a rush of cool wind passes by and his flesh begins to pebble from the drastic change in temperature. He’s grabbing at Daryl, trying to pull him out of the car so that they can carry on somewhere more spacious. The two of them gracelessly struggle out of the vehicle and into the clandestine darkness of the night, and before Rick has time to register what they’re even doing, Daryl’s leaning against the hood of the car, ass pushed out and slowly swinging like a siren.

            “Y’ still thinkin’ bout me?” Daryl’s voice already sounds wrecked; its timbre is low and lust-filled as he emphasizes his need with a controlled thrust of his hips against the hood of the car.

            “Every damn day, I swear.” Rick growls as he uses one hand to push down on Daryl’s back, causing the hunter to press flush against the metallic shell of the car.

            Daryl’s still working to push his ass out as far as he can—looking for some type of friction—and Rick is not a man able to deny an unspoken request as enticing as that. With his other hand, Rick is tugging at Daryl’s waistband, pulling down his pants like a savage in search of treasure. When Daryl’s left with his ass bare and exposed, Rick can’t help but give it a firm slap before massaging the soft curve of swelling flesh.

            Daryl’s wiggling beneath his hold, and Rick bends low to place a light kiss behind his ear as he reaches around the man’s waist. He quickly finds Daryl’s interest, and he places the hunter in his palm to gently stroke his length with smooth rhythm over velvet skin. Rick savors the muffled moans that spill from the younger man’s mouth; the salacious sound is enough to drive him mad from temptation.

            There’s a silent agreement that passes between them when their eyes meet next; it’s small but definite in the way Daryl relaxes and yields under Rick’s hold. The hunter keeps his arms above his head, allowing for the semblance of submissiveness. He’s hot and hard in Rick’s palm, and his hips twitch with need. Daryl’s pliable under Rick’s fingertips as the officer flips his position so that the hunter’s lying on his back, belly up and unveiled for Rick to take.

            Daryl’s panting and half naked on top of the silver sedan; his dick is bobbing against his stomach and hard enough to cut diamonds. The precum dripping from its tip pools into the dip of his bellybutton, and the sparse dusting of hair that begins a trail down to the garden in between his thighs is shining with a sheen layer of sweat. He’s glistering and beautiful and everything that Rick’s ever needed and then some.

            Rick removes his hands from the hunter to work on getting his own jeans undone. His fingers scramble awkwardly against the fastenings until they’re freed and he has them dropped around his ankles. He looks up to find Daryl watching him with hungry eyes and tongue licking his lips with anticipation.

            “C’mon.”

            Rick doesn’t need any further provocation; he’s hastily spitting a glob of saliva into the palm of his hand to rub and spread over his erection. Once his cock’s wet and glossed with spit, Rick pulls at Daryl’s thighs, tugging the hunter closer to the edge of the hood. He’s lining himself up with the hunter’s entrance, and there’s electricity buzzing through Rick’s veins as he pictures himself stuffing Daryl like a doll, filling him up with pieces of himself until he’s bursting at the seams.

            There’s a second where Daryl squeezes Rick between his thighs in a warning of urgency, and Rick nearly blacks out from how good the pressure feels against his humming flesh. He finds himself slowly pressing into Daryl’s tightness, his warmth as enticing as birthday cake with a side of ice cream. Daryl groans beneath him, but doesn’t pull away, and if anything, the hunter relaxes and allows himself to sink further down onto Rick’s cock.

            After a slow moment of intensity, Rick’s bottomed out and he feels like he’s come home for the first time in years. The sight of Daryl impaled on his cock is like catnip, and soon after letting the hunter get adjusted to his girth, Rick’s moving. He’s moving like a predator and fucking like a rabbit; he’s ready to unload a year’s worth of desire. There’s the pounding noise of flesh on flesh that’s ringing in his ears accompanied with the tune of Daryl’s short gasps and wanton moans, and it’s the sweetest harmony Rick’s ever heard.

            Rick’s the conductor and Daryl’s his orchestra. The music they’re making together is something that’s never been heard before, and it’s an unfolding symphony to his ears. It’s a unique cadence; its tempo changes every few beats, varying from fast to slow. It’s something with a carnal edge—organic and filthy.

            Rick’s waist is enfolded between both of Daryl’s thighs, and their pressure fluctuates with every new thrust Rick forces upon the hunter. There’s heat and the heavy musk of sex and desire that’s floating through the air and Rick swears he can taste the salty mixture of Daryl’s release on the tip of his tongue. Daryl looks like he’s near ready to cry with his cheeks so flushed and his mouth frozen in an open gasp of silence.

            “Y’ can cum, Daryl.” Rick pants into the cool air of the night; his breath creating a fog that flees from his mouth—a ghost of his suggestion, “I want y’ to cum.”

            And Daryl’s a tightly wrapped ball of wire and string, but when he gets allowance from Rick he begins to steadily unwind. His legs reach to the sky and fold over Rick’s shoulders, pulling the officer in deeper and harder. The hunter’s eyes are scrunched shut and he’s breaking out in a series of needy gasps while pulling his fingers into a coiled fist. Rick’s watching—lost in his own ecstasy—and he’s trying his damnedest to throw Daryl over the edge.

            His hips falter in their pace, and suddenly Rick’s just trying to nail Daryl to the hood of the car like Christ on the cross. Daryl’s practically screaming ‘cause he’s so lost in the sensation of being pleasantly fucked and filled—a type of elated torment that he’s gonna remember for the rest of his days.

            He moves to the left ever so slightly and that’s when the fireworks go off with a bang. Daryl’s creaming himself in a beautiful shower of release; sticky white drizzles hot as it coats the expanse of his half-covered abdomen. The hunter’s eyes roll to the back of his head for a moment and there’s an inaudible sob that stretches the period of his blacked out euphoria. Rick can’t help but smile with the air of success as he looks down at how Daryl is lying limp and sated.

            As Rick chases his own release, he begins a succession of quick thrusts that suddenly stutter a beat or two. Noise leaves him, and he’s left with only the awareness of connection. It’s an adrenaline rush like a cannonball racing past his head—a feeling that crashes into his system with blunted force, shocking his being to the very core. It’s a waterfall of rapture that overwhelms his perception, and he’s seeing the galaxy flash before his eyes.

            He’s cumming hard and fast, filling up Daryl drop by drop. He’s shaken to the marrow, and he’s searching for thought. At essence, he’s a child swimming in the womb of his mother, and everything is right with the world in that moment because he is safe—he is loved.

            Oxygen fills his lungs and his consciousness returns in a split second of clarity. Rick feels breathless and his head is fogged, but he’s aware enough to know just how good _this_ feels.

            With reluctance, Rick pulls out and helps to lower the hunter’s legs from atop his shoulders. They’re both listless from their recent experience, but they find enough strength within to arrange themselves side by side atop the hood of the car. Without a word they both reach for each other’s hand and hold the other tightly in their grasp.

            There’s stars smeared across the sky above them like snow drops on tar. They’re bright and beautiful; they’re the only entity to witness what majesty Rick and Daryl created between each other in the heat of the moment. It’s safe to assume this would be kept a secret—a private memory only for them to share with Selene—and knowing that causes an ache in Rick’s chest. He relinquished one secret for another, and he hopes that Daryl won’t hide from what this was—what this still is for him.

            Rick turns to look at Daryl; looks at how the hunter’s skin practically glows under the moonlight—iridescent and alluringly flawed. They’ve reached tranquility in this moment, and Rick is afraid of breaking its boundaries. He waits patiently for a sign to bring this night to an end.

            A yawn slips from Daryl’s lips and he gives a soft rumble of laughter.

            “S’ getting’ late.”

            “S’pose it is.”

            There’s disappointment filling Rick’s mouth; its appearance like wet sand.

            “We c’n head back in th’ mornin’,” Daryl nods to himself, “Weren’t a big deal if we got home t’night or t’morrow.”

            Rick noiselessly nods.

            “Stay like this for a while?”

            Rick watches as Daryl’s eyes sparkle with something akin to a plea. It takes Rick by surprise—perhaps the hunter wasn’t so willing to relinquish this time spent with each other? Maybe he, too, wants something more than a fond memory of a one night stand.

            Rick turns his body to the side and arranges himself in a way so that Daryl’s head is resting against the side of his chest; the sound of his heartbeat acts as an anchor to hold the hunter in place. His fingers brush through the tangled strands of Daryl’s hair, and he presses a soft kiss to the top of his scalp before he answers.

            “We can stay like this for as long as you’d like.”


End file.
